


sideways

by weatheredlaw



Series: a line at the edge of the world [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-13 00:18:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14738519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: The world around him is constantly changing, constantly shifting. Sometimes he’s a relic, and sometimes he’s a teacher. Depends on the day, depends on how he feels.or: Sarge has been living his life one way for a long, long time. A certain doctor changes that, and a few new experiences put things in a different perspective.





	sideways

**Author's Note:**

> look! i made this a series! and double look! i'm coming back to it 900 million years later! enjoy.

The shop was always an afterthought. Years ago, he came back home and the idea of working for another man, of clocking in and saying _yes, sir_ to someone else seemed impossible. He was _Sarge_ , and if he went to work with some company, he’d just be another number, another last name mispronounced on purpose for the sake undermining him. He worked at a desk for six hours before he walked out, threw his tie in the garbage, and started thinking.

He didn’t understand a lot of people. They spoke the same language, but living life outside the military was like using a dialect that was all his own. He tried going to those support group meetings, but they were just as lost, just as clueless as him. War hung from them. Talking to each other wasn’t easy. It took time.

And in between all of that — he still needed a job.

So he made one for himself. He bought a little building, he fixed the whole place up on his own, and hired other vets.

That had been twenty years ago. Those guys had moved on, went to college, started families, got better jobs. The years between, the shop was filled with a hodgepodge of kids, people he had a hard time understanding, but who were terrified enough of him to do whatever he asked. Some of them went to school, some of them joined the army.

And when they came back, they had a place to go.

That was the point of it, after all. It was never supposed to be just a place to work, never because he had a passion for sandwiches or food — it was just a place to _be_ , where he didn’t have to answer to anyone. Where the people who worked there could feel like maybe things were going to be okay. That was always the reason. That was always why.

 

* * *

 

It comes to Sarge’s attention at some point that Grif and Simmons are now involved. They don’t bother to hide it, and he’s never made it his business to tell his boys what they can or can’t do. If Donut wants to paint his nails on his break, well that’s his time. If Grif and Simmons want to canoodle by the trash cans outside the coffee shop, more power to them.

But their time on the clock is _his_ , and he expects some semblance of professionalism.

The two of them having an argument about meeting Simmons’ parents that weekend is _not_ professional. And he makes that clear.

“I do not _care_ if you are planning a trip to _Disneyland_. When you are behind this counter, you are at _work_ , gentleman. _Do you_ understand?”

They both intone: “Yes, sir,” and go back to counting down the registers. They’re still talking about it, he can tell, but it’s better than being able to hear it from his office, which is a place of solitude and reflection.

Most of the time.

Donut sticks his head around the door frame around closing and says cheerfully, “We’re going to get beers with the coffee guys, sir. Are you sure you don’t want to join us?” Every Friday they do the same thing, and every Friday, Donut invites him.

Sarge looks up, brow arched high. “I do not, Franklin.”

“Okay, sir. You have a great night.” He winks and heads out. As soon as Grif and Simmons are clocked out, their argument starts up again, high-pitched and unpleasant.

“I _don’t_ want your gramma’s _birthday party_ to be the place where I meet your parents,” Grif snaps. “It’s weird and awkward and I’m not good in groups.”

“It’ll be for, like, an hour.”

“That is fifty-nine minutes longer than I can handle, Simmons.”

“Seriously? You’re _actually_ going to do this?”

“I’ve _told you_.” Something slams on the counter. “I’ve told you seventeen times, and for some reason, you’re not listening. You might be able to fake it until you make it with this shit, but I can’t. I can’t.”

Simmons makes a noise. “I have to fake it, Grif. I can’t lose my shit in front of my parents because the second I do, I—” He cuts himself off with a quiet choking noise.

Grif says quietly, “Hey. Okay. I’m sorry. I was being selfish, I’m sorry. Don’t—” Sarge doesn’t hear what comes next, but he’s listened in enough. He knows his boys have it rough. That some days are better than others. He goes back to his desk and starts shuffling things around, trying not to hear the rest of their discussion as they head out the door.

But he catches it, just the tail end of it all —

“—whatever you need from me,” Grif says. “I’ll do it.”

Sarge leans back in his chair.

He knows his boys have it rough, but — hell, at least they have each other.

He passes the coffee shop on his way to his truck, glancing inside. They’re closed for the night, but he can see Grif and Simmons and Donut sitting at a table with the boys who work for Church, who’s really just a kid himself. Sarge knows Grif and Simmons don’t go to group, like he did when he first came home, but they’ve built something of their own, and it’s nice enough to see, even if that Church kid is a pain in the ass.

They’re all a pain in the ass, when it comes down to it.

Sarge gets into his truck and puts his hands on the steering wheel. Might be nice, he thinks, to go out with them one time. See what they get up to. What are his plans for the evening anyway, really? Go home, cook something easy, watch _Planet Earth._ He thinks that he might really go for it, might walk into Canyon Roasts and see if he can give them a ride, maybe. Be a DD.

But he starts the engine before he can reconsider, and takes the long way home.

 

* * *

 

Sarge _likes_ to be alone. He enjoys solitude and quiet. He prefer to pass the evenings without anyone bothering him, or keeping him up.

He thinks about getting a dog though. Sometimes. Might be nice to have someone to come home to. Someone who wouldn’t interrupt when he’s bitching about Grif, or life in general. He’s reheating leftovers and considering he might want a dog that doesn’t shed when someone knocks on the door. It’s not exactly who he’s expecting, but it’s not a total surprise.

“Well, well. Dr.Grey. Fancy seeing you here this evening.”

Emily Grey smiles and tips her head to the side. “In on a Friday night again, sargeant?” She breezes past him and into the apartment, going for the fridge. “I need six eggs. Do you have eggs?”

“Uh, I do, but what’s—”

“I’m making a chocolate souffle.”

“Talk about big Friday night plans,” he says, but goes to help her dig them out of the back. “What was it last weekend?”

“A raspberry pavlova,” she says.

“You’re gonna eat me out of house and home if you’re not careful.”

Grey shrugs and heads back to the door. “I’m sure you’ll be just as prepared next time.” She stops and turns to him. “I could bring you some tomorrow, if you’d like?”

“Got work tomorrow.”

She nods. “Of course. That’s you, isn’t it? Never a dull moment.”

“Idle hands, the devil’s workshop.” He gestures vaguely. “Something like that.”

“Well, enjoy your evening,” she says. “And thank you for the eggs.”

“Oh, it’s no problem.” He opens the door for her and watches her go. She lives just a few doors down on the opposite side of the hall. Sarge doesn’t know much about her — she works at the hospital, she likes to bake on Fridays, and he thinks she has a cat, but, he’s not sure.

He almost calls after her — maybe they could do something together, maybe she could bring her souffle over later in the evening, maybe she could watch the _Planet Earth_ episode about deserts with him, since he hasn’t seen that one yet.

But he doesn’t.

The microwave is beeping. He shuts the door, and goes back inside.

 

* * *

 

On Saturdays Lopez works in the shop with everyone else. He doesn’t talk much, prefers to stick close to Grif who he can mutter to in Spanish. Grif always says something back, and it infuriates Simmons to no end that he can’t understand what they’re saying.

“Learn another language, man,” Grif says. He passes Lopez a container of sliced turkey and says something that makes him laugh, _loud_.

The banter is nice on a Saturday. It keeps them on their toes for the lunch rush, then subsides into quiet in the few hours before they close. Around two, the place is clearing out. Sarge is finishing up a produce order in his office when Simmons knocks on the door. “Uh, sir? There’s...someone here to see you.”

“Huh.” Sarge gets up and follows him out — and there’s Dr. Grey, tupperware and a grocery bag in hand.

“I hoped you hadn’t left yet.”

“Uh, no. Here all day.” He goes around the counter and stands awkwardly in front of her. He’s only ever seen her in the building, in her scrubs. She’s wearing a nice dress and a cardigan, with pearls in either ear. She hands him the container. “Is this the, uh. The souffle thing?”

“Chocolate souffle. It’s a temperamental dessert, I don’t know if I captured its _essence_ , but I think you’ll like it. Also, eggs.” She holds up the bag. “I’ve got plans tonight so I wasn’t sure if I’d see you, and I wanted to replenish your stock before next week. I’m thinking of tackling macarons.”

“Notoriously difficult,” Grif says behind them. Simmons shushes him.

“Right.” Sarge takes the bag with eggs in it from her and nods. “Well, uh. Thank you. You certainly didn’t have to, eggs are never a problem.”

“Oh, I know. Thought that counts, or whatever.” She puts a hand on his arm and smiles. “I’ll see you later this week then, won’t I?”

“I’m sure you will.”

“Great.” She turns and waves. “ _Nice_ to meet you boys, have a safe weekend.”

When she’s gone, Sarge is still standing there, souffle in one hand, eggs in the other.

Grif says loudly, “What the _fuck_ was that?” Lopez responds in Spanish. “ _Yo sé_ ,” Grif says. “But _seriously._ ”

“Neighbor lady,” Sarge says quickly, and heads back toward his office. He stashes the eggs in the walk-in and goes to sit at his desk, setting the tupperware on the corner. He doesn’t come out until the boys are closing up.

Grif eyes the tupperware. “Smooth move on her part.”

“ _Grif_ —” Simmons says.

Sarge turns to him. “Why?”

“Oh, just ‘cause you’re gonna have to give that back to her, right? Like you’ll eat whatever she made you, and then you’ll clean out the container and you’ll bring it down the hall or wherever and you’ll be all, ‘here’s your tupperware, ma’am,’ and she’ll be like, ‘well, my _stars_ you’re such a gentleman—’”

Simmons swats at him. “He’s the only one with an accent, dumbass. Let’s go, I’m hungry. Lopez, you want to come with?”

Lopez nods.

Donut turns to Sarge as they lock up the front. “You want to come out tonight, sir? We’re getting tacos with Caboose and his girlfriend.”

“No thanks, son. You boys don’t get into trouble. Grif, walk into traffic.”

Grif salutes. “Will do, sir.”

Sarge shakes his head, grumbling as he unlocks his truck. “Stupid suggestion. Wouldn’t ever even _think_ —” He stops, because he can feel two eyes watching him, and he turns. There’s a boy, maybe ten or eleven, head tipped to the side listening to him ramble. “Uh, hey there. Your folks around?” The boy nods and points toward the coffee shop. “Oh, right. You’re, uh. You’re Tucker’s boy. Junior somethin’.” He nods again and comes up to Sarge, tapping on the lid of the tupperware. “Oh, this is, uh. It’s something someone made me.”

Junior signs, _A friend?_

Sarge signs back, _Something like that._ And then the kid’s eyes grow bigger than a set of dinner plates. He tugs on Sarge’s sleeve, starts signing back rapidly. He’s going so quick and it’s too dark so Sarge is having a hard time keeping up, but he gets the gist.

_I didn’t know you could sign. That makes me really happy._

“Oh.” Sarge opens the door to the truck and sets the container and the eggs in the front seat. He signs back, _I learned a long time ago. For my mother._

_Was she like me?_

_Different. She was deaf._

Junior hops from one foot to the other, and when the door to the coffee shop swings open and Tucker and Church come out, he runs to them, pulling Tucker toward the truck.

“Dude, what’s going on—” Tucker spots Sarge and stops. “Oh. Uh, evening, sir.”

Junior pulls impatiently on Tucker’s shirt. _He can sign._

“Oh, no way, really?” Tucker signs, _Were you polite?_ Junior nods, pulls a face. “That’s really cool. Thanks for doing that with him,” he says, looking at Sarge. “Didn’t know you could.”

“I’m rusty,” Sarge says quickly. “No good for practice.”

“Junior’s a pro, he could help.”

Junior’s pulling on Sarge’s shirt again. _You could come over after school when I’m here, and we could do it together. You could help Caboose._

“Uh, maybe. We’ll see.” Sarge clears his throat. “Nice talkin’ to you both.” He turns and moves his things over to the passenger seat and gets in. Junior is still pointing excitedly at his truck and signing to his dad, who smiles and leans down to kiss the top of his head before helping him into their little car.

It’s been a while since he talked about his mother. She died years ago, and learning to sign was just one of the things she left behind for him. He remembers how _special_ he felt, being able to talk to her when no one else could. How he got to go to doctors’ appointments or help her at the grocery store. She had died before he joined the army, which he figures is in some way a blessing, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t think about her.

She wouldn’t like his general demeanor, he knows that. But then, maybe if she’d been around when he’d come back, things would have been a little easier.

Sarge pushes that aside and goes home.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t expect Dr. Grey to be home on a Tuesday evening, but she opens the door when he knocks, looking as surprised to see him as he is to see her.

“Well good evening!”

Sarge looks at the container in his hands, then holds it straight out. “Uh, here.”

She’s holding a bowl in her hands, stirring something idly, head tipped to the side. “Why don’t you bring it in for me?”

“Oh, I, uh. I’ll just set it out here—”

“Don’t be silly.” She gestures for him to follow and heads back into the apartment. “I wasn’t expecting to see you until Friday.” Sarge takes a step in and stands awkwardly at the edge of the kitchen. She looks over at him. “How was the souffle?”

“Hm? Oh, it was very good.”

It was fucking _delicious_ , is what he wants to say, but he’s distracted by the meticulous nature of her apartment. Everything seems to have a place, the position of the plates and bowls in the exposed cabinets obvious. She’s cooking, and her kitchen should be a little cluttered, but nothing about that seems out of place either.

“You can set it there,” she says, nodding her head toward the counter. Sarge sets it down, then takes a step back. “You can stay for dinner, too,” she adds. “I was just going to eat alone, and I know _you’re_ eating alone.”

“I couldn’t impose—”

“Really, it wouldn’t be any trouble—”

“No, no, I don’t want to be a bother.”

She laughs. “It’s _honestly_ not a big deal—”

“ _No_ ,” he says firmly, and she stops stirring. “I mean...no thank you.” He takes another step back.

“...Okay.” Grey looks down into the bowl and nods. “Well. Thank you, for bringing that back to me.”

Sarge nods, then turns and goes, shutting the door behind him.

He’s rude, he knows this. He’s kind of mean and rough around the edges, but there was no reason to be that way to _her_. She’s never been anything but nice, if a little odd. She just borrows eggs from him, and now apparently brings him dessert and groceries. She wanted to fix him dinner, to talk to him.

He grumbles at himself. Would it be so bad?

Of course the answer is _yes_. Yes, it would be. He is unpleasant, he works constantly, and he has been told more than once that he is trapped in the past, a relic of a time no one really wants to remember.

Sarge sifts through things in his fridge and puts something together. He doesn’t really have it in him to do more than set his dirty dish in the sink and go to bed.

 

* * *

 

“Did you give that lady her tupperware back?” Grif leans into Sarge’s office, a brown bag dangling from his hand.

“Yes.”

“Cool. We brought you a bear claw from the coffee shop.” He tosses the bag into the chair in front of Sarge’s desk. “Hey, did you get lucky or anything—”

“Grif, get the _hell_ out of my office.”

“Alright, _alright!_ ” Grif raises his hands and heads back to the front of the shop. Sarge hears him bickering with Donut before a bit of a lunch rush comes in. He waits until they’re busy before snatching the bag from the chair and takings a few bites from the bear claw.

He loses track of time, surprised when someone knocks and he looks up, ready to toss Grif out on his ass —

But it’s Tucker.

“Is...this a bad time?”

Sarge shakes his head. “No, no.”

“Great. Uh, my kid really wanted to say hi. He hasn’t stopped talking about you. Is he...I mean, is it cool if he hangs out here for a bit?”

Sarge doesn’t know why he should say no. He’s not busy, the kid could entertain himself. He _almost_ says no just out of habit. Entertaining fourth graders isn’t exactly fitting per his reputation, but…

“Sure, sure.” He waves them both in and Tucker grins.

“Awesome. Come on, bud.”

Junior comes in and climbs into the chair in front of the desk. He signs to his dad, _It’s okay?_

Tucker says and signs back, “It’s fine. But do your homework, _please._ ”

Junior sighs and pulls a binder out of his bag and nods.

Tucker kisses the top of his head. “Be good,” he says. “And thanks,” he adds to Sarge. “I really appreciate it. If I’m not back before you close, can you bring him over?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Great, thanks.” Tucker grins and heads out, and Sarge is left alone in the office with a…

He signs, _How old are you?_

_Ten and a half._

“Oh, right. That half is important.”

 _Extremely._ Junior ducks his head and keeps doing his homework. Simmons comes back to have him sign for a delivery, but doesn’t say anything. They must look...odd together, but Sarge enjoys the quiet companionship.

When Junior seems done with his work, he leans forward. _Is this your business?_

“Yes.”

_Do you like working here?_

“Yes.”

_Are you grumpy like Church?_

“...I think so.”

Junior laughs, and it’s a very soft noise, like he doesn’t make it very often. Sarge finds himself smiling, which is something _he_ doesn’t do very often. He and Junior sign back and forth for the rest of the afternoon. Tucker still isn’t back when they close, so he signs for Junior to follow him and has the boys lock up.

Simmons says, sounding a little put out, “I didn’t know you could sign, Sarge.”

“Mmhm. Come on, son, let’s get you to your dad.” He adjusts Junior’s backpack and walks with him across the street. The coffee shop is emptying out. Junior bolts for the little door that leads behind the counter and wraps his arms around Tucker’s legs.

“Hey, dude! Sorry, we got _super_ busy.” Tucker grins at Sarge. “Thanks for watching him.”

“Yep.”

Church comes out from his office, looking surprised to see Sarge. “Evening, sir.”

“Leonard.”

Church rolls his eyes. “Right, okay.” He starts counting the money from the tip jar, handing a few bucks to Tucker, then to Caboose. Caboose counts it and grins, sticking it in his pocket.

“Evening, sergeant.”

“Caboose.”

Junior comes to stand between them and starts signing, _Sarge can sign, maybe he can teach you._

Caboose signs back roughly, _Maybe_. He lets Junior hug him and gives Sarge another smile as he starts stacking chairs.

“Hey, you want a quick cup before we close?” Tucker asks. “On the house.”

“Uh, sure. Alright.” He approaches the counter and Tucker pours him the last cup for the day and puts a lid on it.

“He had a fun time. You have kids?”

“No.”

“Well you seem pretty good with them.” Tucker hands over the cup. “Do you mind if he comes over again? Maybe in a couple weeks.”

Sarge shrugs. “Don’t see why not.”

Church comes around the counter and helps Caboose finish with the chairs. “You left your kid alone with this man? Do you not remember the trashcan feud of 2009?”

Sarge points. “You were usin’ the wrong bins and you _know that._ ”

Church laughs. “Alright, old man. Whatever you say.”

Sarge shakes his head. “Goodnight, boys.”

“Night, sir,” Caboose says, and Junior gives him a wave.

 

* * *

 

One evening he comes home late and Dr. Grey is just getting in. She looks up and sees him, gives him a smile. It throws him off a little, and he smiles back without thinking. She angles herself toward him, leaning on the door frame.

“Late shift?”

“Big order. Had to keep the boys late.”

She nods, looks at the floor. Then: “You were rude the other day. What was that about?”

Now _that_ throws him off. “Um—”

“I mean—” She starts walking toward him. “I really thought you and I were _working_ on something.”

“Well, we, uh. You and I—”

Grey reaches out and touches his arm. “How many more times do I have to do that, hm? How many more eggs do I need to borrow? I’m a surgeon. I don’t _need_ to do that. I have a dozen eggs sitting in my fridge right now, but I keep getting them from you.” She tips her head to the side, gives him a smile. “I never took you for a fool.”

“Then you don’t know me as well as you think,” he says, and tries to laugh. It’s a joke, right?

She doesn’t think it’s funny.

“I’m trying to ask you to sleep with me,” she says flatly. “No jokes, no quips, no _strings_ attached. If you’re not interested—”

“I am,” he blurts out. “I mean. I, uh. I do. Like you. That’s what...that’s what I’m trying to say, I—” Grey puts a finger to his lips.

“You’re rambling, dear. Now, I’ll save you the choice of agonizing over where we should do this and _just_ tell you to follow me.”

Sarge exhales, relieved. “Sure,” he says, and trails after her down the hall. “I can do that.”

 

* * *

 

He is late to work for the first time in his life because Emily Grey presses him against the door of her apartment and kisses him _stupid._ He is late to work for the first time in his life because Emily Grey insists on going down on him in her kitchen while he tries to make coffee for them both. He is late to work for the first time in his life because when he is trying to leave so he can go home and change she grabs either side of his ass and hauls him in and he bends her over the love seat in her living room and pounds her until she screams.

He is late to work for the first time in his life — and he doesn’t have a single damn regret.

Grif points accusingly, practically bellows, “ _You got laid!_ ” while Simmons clutches at his face and pleads with him to stop. Donut cheers, claps Sarge on the back.

“Great work, sir!”

“That is not why—”

“It _is_ ,” Grif says. “You hooked up with that doctor lady and you’re _late_ because of it.” He smacks his knee. “I’m gonna win _fifty bucks_.”

“From _who?_ ” Simmons asks.

“Lopez.”

Sarge moves past all of them, goes into his office, and shuts the door.

 _Nah_ , he thinks. _Still no regrets._

 

* * *

 

Her hair comes out of its practical clip and dark curls streaked with grey fall around her face and touch his cheeks as she leans down to kiss him.

“ _You_ are a curiosity,” she tells him.

“Might use the word relic.”

“Why?” She tilts her head to the side. “You’re _very_ relevant. You have experience, you have wisdom.”

Sarge shrugs and chases her mouth, but she pulls back.

“You think you don’t matter,” she says. “Don’t you?”

He stares. She leans down and kisses him against, makes little _tsk tsk_ noises into his mouth.

“Very silly,” she says, and tugs his bottom lip between her teeth.

Later, he comes with his head thrown back and a pleading groan as she rides him, gripping his hands, clasping them to her breasts as she arches into her own climax with a _sigh_ and a _laugh_. She looks down at him, runs a hand through her hair and grins.

“God, you _fuck_ like you’re relevant.”

Sarge blinks. “I don’t...know what that means.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She lifts off of him and he gets up to toss his condom and splash water on his face. His reflection looks back at him, aging and etched with deep frown lines. He needs to shave, his six o’clock shadow is ridiculous.

Grey comes into the bathroom and stands behind him, winding her arms around his bare chest, pressing her lips against his right shoulder blade.

“I only mean that you’re important. So don’t write yourself off yet, big guy.”

He glances at her over his shoulder. “You sound like you’re tryin’ to talk me into something.”

Grey shrugs. “I think you have a lot to give. There’s a support group that meets at the hospital looking for mentors. I saw the flyer and I thought of you.” Her hand snakes up and cards through his hair. “Just think about it,” she says brightly. “Now come back to bed, I’m not done with you yet.”

 

* * *

 

The guy who runs the group at the hospital is actually an old buddy of his — left the sandwich place and got a masters in counseling psych and runs a few different veteran support groups around town.

“S’real good to see you, Sarge. Seriously. How’d you hear about us?”

“My, uh. This, uh, woman—” He sighs. He sounds _stupid._ “My girlfriend’s a surgeon. She saw the flyer.”

“Well, we’re glad you’re here.” He explains that the group splits up into smaller units, each one run by two facilitators. “You’re just there to lead the discussion, pull from some of the activities in the handbook, or let ‘em talk it out. They get too worked up, me or one of the other docs around here can come in and talk ‘em down. We—” He stops, starts waving someone over. “Wash! Wash, c’mere. Sarge, this is Wash. He’s gonna be your co-facilitator. Wash started doing this, what, later year?”

“Just about,” Wash says. He has a distinctly mid-western cadence. He doesn’t look much older than thirty-five, but his hair is deeply streaked with grey and he carries himself like a man who is just _always_ exhausted. He turns to Sarge and extends a hand. “Good to meet you. Always nice to have someone new around. Where’d you serve?”

“Kuwait. Gulf War,” he adds. “You?”

“Afghanistan.” He motions for Sarge to follow him and they go into one of the smaller meeting rooms. “This one’s ours. There’s about six guys here, might be getting a couple more. They’re kind of in different places, but that can be good. Ours is just men. Sherry and Oh run one of the women’s groups. Carolina runs another. You’ll probably meet them at the barbecue this summer. There’s a barbecue,” he adds. “It’s, uh. Well there’s people and food.”

Sarge nods. “Sounds like a real party.”

“Yep.” Wash sniffs. Rocks back and forth on his feet. Someone pokes their head in and he turns, waving to them. “Hey, Terrence. T, this is Sarge. New mentor.”

Terrence nods, coming into the room and taking a seat. Over the next few minutes a few more guys wander in, pick seats. Some of them chat with one another, some keep to themselves. Wash and Sarge sit in one part of the circle and wait for seven o’clock.

“Alright,” Wash says, leaning forward. “You guys know the drill. Name, where you served, and uh. One good thing that happened to you since we last met. Anyone want to get us started?”

The room is silent until a guy lifts his hand and Wash nods. “I’m Palomo? I served in Iraq, and I came home last June. I guess since we last met I, um. I went on a date.” The guys around him start clapping and Palomo grins. “Yeah. Yeah! It was good!”

Wash smiles. “That’s awesome, Palomo. Thanks for sharing.”

They keep going around the circle until it gets to Sarge. He gives them his name and where he served, but stops at that final addition. One good thing. Does he tell these guys he doesn’t know about Emily? Does he tell them that Lopez said something nice to him for the first time since he started working there? Does he tell them that he heard Grif tell Simmons he loves him?

“I took my girlfriend to dinner,” he decides, because they did, for the first time, just a few days ago. And he was...okay. He did fine. He felt sort of...normal.

Palomo grins at him. “Thanks for sharing that, sir.”

Wash nods. “Yeah, that’s really great.” He looks around the room. “Well, you guys know me. I’m Wash, I was in Afghanistan. And I guess my good thing would be that I sold my house and moved in with my boyfriend.”

“Nice,” Terrence says. “That’s good for you guys. Does it have room for the big ass garden you’re gonna need?”

Wash laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

After group — which is slow, like pulling teeth, like waiting for the tide to go out — Wash asks him how he liked it.

“S’good. It’s, uh. It’s interesting.”

Wash nods. “It’s a process. Some of these guys are ready to move on, some of them really need our help, still. I came here a couple years ago and I was doing okay, but I just...I need that connection, you know? I needed to hear someone else say that they’d gone through this, too. When they asked if I wanted to mentor, I jumped.”

“You did a good job.”

“You, too, sir.” Wash extends a hand and they shake. “I’ll see you next week, yeah?”

“Sure. Next week.”

 

* * *

 

Sarge hasn’t had a steady girlfriend in about a _decade_ , so Emily’s arrival at the shop to just chat completely throws the boys for a loop. Except for Donut, who is _thrilled._

“He’s in his office, ma’am. Gosh it’s nice to really meet you.”

“And _you_.” Sarge hears her sensible loafers make this little shuffle noise on the tiles and it puts a flutter in his breastbone that he would have been ashamed of, once. She pushes the door open and leans in. “You busy?”

“Not at all.”

She grins and shuts the door, then turns the lock. “I heard your group went well.”

“Yeah. It was, uh. It was good. Met some—” He stops as she drops her bag and settles into his lap. “Now listen—”

“I _am_ ,” she tells him. “I just _also_ wanted to, ah—” Her hand trails down and palms the bulge in his slacks.

He raises a brow. “Here?”

“What, you’ve never done it in your office before?”

“No,” he says flatly. “Never.”

“Oh,” she says. “I think you’re _really_ going to like it.”

 

* * *

 

Sarge has gone outside before and caught one of the coffee boys in the middle of a panic attack, leaning against the wall, breathing harsh and deep. Handful of years ago, it used to be Tucker. When Caboose came, it was him.

Hasn’t been Church in a long, _long_ time.

He has his arms wrapped around himself, forehand planted against the brick, eyes closed while he talks himself down from something.

“—just a noise,” Sarge hears him mutter. “Just a sound. Chill the fuck out. _Relax._ ” Sarge is going to just turn around — he can make Donut take out the trash later — but a truck goes by and honks, and Church turns and sees him. He drops his hands, reaches into the front pocket of his shirt for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

They drop.

“ _Fuck._ ”

Sarge tosses the bags and goes to pick up the smokes. “Stuff’ll kill ya.”

“Yeah, because _that’s_ what I’m worried about.”

“You okay?”

“I’m _fine_ , gramps. Fuck _off_.” Sarge raises a brow. Church puts a cigarette between his lips with a trembling hand, tries to light it. Eventually he chucks it away, putting the lighter back in his pocket. “It’s nothing. It’s _nothing._ This—” He gestures between them. “This is not a problem for me. I do not _freak out._ I do not _have_ this _issue._ ”

“Okay.”

“Stop that! I am fine. I’m fine!” He laughs a little manically.

They stand there for a few more minutes. Church leans against the wall.

“It was just a sound,” he says quietly. “I don’t even know where it came from. I don’t know if it even _happened._ I just know that I heard it.”

“Then it was real enough.”

“That’s fucking bullshit,” Church mutters. “I should be...I should be _better_ than that. I’ve gotta look after Caboose, I’ve gotta keep Tucker in line—”

“They’re grown ass men, son. They can do that work themselves.”

“I’m their _boss_ —”

Sarge nods. “I know. You want to be the one who has it together. Can’t always afford that luxury, though. Sometimes you gotta let yourself be the one who’s fallin’ apart, just a little.”

Church glances at him. “What are you, the fountain of wisdom?”

“Nah.” Sarge looks up, appreciates the clouds coming in. “Just a guy who’s been around.”

Church nods. “I mean. Thanks.”

“There’s people you can talk to, you know.”

Church scowls. “You sound like Tucker.”

“Well, maybe he’s right.”

Church nods, shoves his hands in his pockets and turns to go back inside. “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”

 

* * *

 

Emily leans against the door outside his apartment, presses her hands flat against it. “Let me see.”

“You’ve been in before.”

“Right. But let me _see_ ,” she says.

Sarge grips his keys a little tighter. “It’s nothin’ special.”

“It’s your house,” she says. “So it’s very special. Come on,” she adds, and reaches out to pull him in, kissing him. “We do it at my place all the time.”

“And my office.”

“Mmm, just the once.”

“Twice,” he reminds her.

“Oh, _right!_ Good memory, stud.” She raps her knuckles on the door. “Come on. Open sesame.”

He finally nods, puts the key in the lock. It’s true, she’s been inside, but his kitchen is one thing — the rest of his space is something totally different. He turns on a light, exposes it all for what it is.

Sparse and angular, a little dusty. Brown leather couch with not a lot of character. All of it bought second hand when he moved to the city. Grey moves between spaces, puts her hand on little things here and there — a photo of his mother, a photo of his battalion, the records he keeps on a shelf by the TV.

“I like it,” she says. “Could use a bit more... _you_. But it’s fine.”

“It serves its purpose.”

She laughs. “It’s your _home_.” She walks back to him. “It has more than just a purpose.”

“Doesn’t much feel that way.”

Grey shrugs. “Then make it feel that way. But later. I’m assuming the tour ends in the bedroom?”

“Absolutely,” he says, and pulls her down the hall.

 

* * *

 

It’s been more than a month since Junior came to the shop and they spent that afternoon together. Tucker hasn’t brought it up, so Sarge doesn’t ask, but he’s pleasantly surprised when Simmons pushes open the door to his office and tells Junior to go on in.

“He just kind of...showed up.”

“Er, alright.” Junior climbs into the chair on the other side of the desk, pulls his knees to his chest. “Thank you, Simmons.”

“...Okay.”

Sarge closes the door, goes to his side of the desk and signs, _Are you in trouble?_

_I fought with my dad. Please don’t call him._

“Son, if he doesn’t know where you are—”

_Please don’t call him._

Sarge leans back in his chair and shakes his head. “Alright. But if calls—”

_Tell him I’m not here._

_I am not doing that_ , he signs back quickly, and goes back to doing his paperwork.

Tucker doesn’t call, later, he shows _up_ , barreling down the hall. He stands in the doorway, and he and his son stare at one another for a full minute before he gets down on one knee.

“Bud. _I’m sorry._ ” And there’s a pause, and Sarge thinks for a second he might have to say something, but Junior falls out of his chair, falls into his dad, wraps his arms around his neck. “I’m so sorry,” Tucker says again. “I’m sorry I yelled, I really am.” He looks at Sarge. “Was he okay? Did he say anything—”

“Nope. Just...wanted to sit.”

“Thank you. Dude, like seriously. _Thank you._ ”

“Sorry I didn’t call, but he was pretty keen on runnin’, figured it’d be best if I kept him here.”

“No, you’re fine. You did good, man. I told you.” He sticks out a hand and Sarge shakes it. “You’re good with him. You’re good with kids. You made the right choice.” Tucker pulls back, clutches Junior a little tighter. “Let’s go home,” he says. “Let’s go home and talk this out, alright?” They turn and head out of the office, and Sarge watches them go.

He leans back in his chair, and this tight feeling grips his chest.

He misses her. He wants to see her.

He grabs his keys and tells the boys he’ll be gone for the rest of the day. Grif watches him go, brow raised, but doesn’t say anything.

“You’re in charge, Simmons.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He goes to his truck and he drives straight to the hospital. And realizes very quickly — he doesn’t know where she’ll be. He doesn’t even know if she’s free, or if she’s _there._ He could call her, text her, but he just wants to see her because the moment feels right and it feels like, if she’s there, then maybe, just maybe — he’s made all the right decisions up until now.

He asks someone where he might find her, takes the elevator to the sixth floor. A nurse tells him she’s around, and he just starts looking.

He spots her in a lounge, pouring over a chart, scribbling notes and talking to herself. He really likes it when she does that.

She looks up when he opens the door, surprised before she grins. “Hey, _you_. What are you doing—”

“Telling you that I missed you.”

“You saw me yesterday, hon.”

“And I missed you.” He kneels in front of her. “I had to see you, I had to tell you—” He kisses her. “I’m ready to have everything in my life do more than serve its purpose. I like helpin’ those guys. I like having you in my life. I like making choices that _matter._ And you helped me do that. You _helped_ me.”

Emily laughs, reaches out to cup his face in her hands. “You are _fascinatingly_ brave. Do you know that? Everything you do _astounds_ me. God, I just—” She kisses him back, holds him close. “Can you take me home? I’m done here, and I want to be with you.”

“I can.”

“Thank _God_ ,” she croons, and he thinks he sees every line of intention between them in the curve of her neck, the hollow of her throat. He presses his lips there and he thinks that he is _lucky_ to be here. Lucky to be alive. Lucky to be in love.

 

* * *

 

Sarge keeps going to group. It’s a good place to think, a good place to put things in perspective. In the summer he goes to the barbecue, meets Maine, brings the boys and asks Church and his crew to come. Church tells him quietly that he’s been talking with someone, that it’s helping, that he and Tex have been doing better since. It’s not a thank you, and Sarge wouldn’t have expected it — but it’s as close as they’ll get and that’s fine.

He and Junior are brushing up on his sign language. Sometimes Caboose comes by on a break and works on it, too.

He goes out with everyone sometimes, brings Emily along, drives them home if they need it.

He takes his first vacation in years. Hawaii, at Grif’s suggestion. Emily comes along and they spend their time between the beach and the bar and the bedroom, and that’s pretty much it. It’s the best damn trip he’s taken in years.

The world around him is constantly changing, constantly shifting. Sometimes he’s a relic, and sometimes he’s a teacher. Depends on the day, depends on how he feels.

One thing is always the same, though —

He works for himself. He gives others a place to get better. And he takes absolutely no shit.

Because he’s earned that. And he’s done _right_ by his boys, and by the ones who came before him.

And, as he’s learning — from group, from Emily, from Grif and Simmons, from Caboose, Tucker, Junior — he’s done right by himself, too. And that’s really what matters.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @ weatheredlaw


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